What Do You Do With a Drunken Doctor?
by nocturne-du-corbeau
Summary: John comes home tipsy from an evening at the pub with Lestrade. Sherlock is in the mood to interrogate and deduce, and John is his chosen victim. Slightly fluffy. First kiss and discovery of feelings. Written with a partner. Enjoy and review fairly. As always Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffatt and the characters belong to Sir ACD, not to me.


John comes home late one night after drinks at the pub with Greg. He's not completely drunk, but the alcohol has had enough effect on his nervous system to cause him to stagger up the stairs to 221B Baker St and trip into the main room.

Sherlock stood alone, standing in the middle of the flat, violin in hand. He stops as he hears a loud thud of John entering the room. "Evening." he greets with a smug smile

John rights himself and smiles at Sherlock, eyes hazy, "Hello, Sherlock." He heads toward the kitchen to make himself tea, but gets dizzy on the way and half falls-half sits in his chair.

Sherlock smiles again, this time to himself as there is no one in the room to see him.  
Placing his instrument on the side table, he makes his way over to the kitchen to talk to a very easily-influenced John Watson.

"Have a nice night?" he asked pleasantly, feigning interest.

"Well, yes. Why do you want to know," he asks, surprised at Sherlock's rare pleasant tone. It was domestic and so endearing.

"Oh, nothing..." Sherlock mused, walking slow circles around the kitchen.  
"Just wondering if you got up to anything special...met anyone interesting..."

"Sherlock, Greg and I went to the same pub we always go to and had drinks. Nothing out of the ordinary. Why the inquisition?"

Sherlock took a seat across from his friend, analyzing his flatmate's reaction.  
"Can't I be curious?" Sherlock asked plainly, raising a single eyebrow. "Sometimes it gets boring talking to myself. Well, no it doesn't..." he corrected "...but now and then it's nice to hear a different voice."

"No, no, Sherlock. I know you by now. This is something else. What are you up to? What is this?" John's brow furrowed with confusion and suspicion.

Sherlock put on his best 'offended' face, stretched his eyes open a bit farther and moving his mouth into a subtle 'o' shape.  
"John, I thought you wanted me to be more considerate..." he said, maintaining his confused expression.

"Well... I suppose... I-I do..." John was stammering, having been caught off-guard. "But you and that smug grin and the pacing... something else is up. What is it? He rose from his chair, pulled a mug from the cabinet and began making himself tea, adding a shot of bourbon. Or two. Or three.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder, observing John attempting to intoxicate himself further. He smiled again. Circumstances would be perfect for this experiment.  
Sherlock then let his face drop, returning to its neutral expression.  
"Fine. Sorry I asked." He stated without emotion and turned on his heel, waiting to see if John would try to stop him

John looked up from his mug as he was sipping from it, "Sherlock..."

Sherlock stopped walking, turning his head slightly to peak over his shoulder, but remained silent

"Don't…"

"Don't what?" Sherlock prompted, his voice low and steady

John couldn't bring himself to say the exact words of what he was thinking. 'Don't go.' is what he wanted to say, but he knew how that would sound.  
"If you honestly want to sit here and interrogate me, by all means, go ahead, if it will really keep you entertained. I'll answer all of your questions." John was willing to do at least that as long as he could sit across from the man long enough to admire his cheekbones, his eyes, and his pale skin against that blasted purple shirt without drawing attention.

Sherlock kept his expression neutral, but on the inside he was practically singing with excitement. Turning back, he walked steadily back to the table and sat down, pressing his fingertips together and leaning slightly into his hands.  
"Alright then," he said, now prepared to begin

John sighed and added to his mug. Now there was more bourbon than tea. He'd need it to get through this without getting annoyed. He took his place at the table once again and drank deeply from his mug.

"What was the real reason for going out tonight? It wasn't really to see Greg- we only just finished a case with him yesterday."

"I felt like having a drink at the pub and I don't like drinking alone in public," John replied rather matter-of-factly.

"You seem to be drinking alone with me just fine" Sherlock replied, the hints of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth

"We're not in public, are we?" John knew it was a smart-ass remark, but at this point he didn't care. He looked pointedly into his drink even when he wasn't sipping from it, just to avoid being caught staring at the detective sitting across from him. The warmth of the liquor was spreading outward from his stomach. Soon, the effects would be at his brain.

"Well observed, John" Sherlock said back, a fine drip of sarcasm working its way into his speech.  
"What I mean to say is, why do you usually insist on going out to drink instead of staying in the flat with me?" Sherlock studied John's reaction intently as he waited for each response.

"Because there's a better variety of liquor at the pub. And I don't confine myself to crime scenes, Barts, and this flat the way you do. I /like/ to be social." John was starting to feel even more tingly-minded. Soon, he would be drunk. And honest.

Satisfied, Sherlock leaned back in his chair slightly, watching John continue to swig back his spiked tea.  
"So then tell me John, do you sometimes wish we didn't live together?" he asked, trying to coax out a bit of John Watson that somehow Sherlock had not figured out yet

John paused before answering, "... 'course not. I wouldn't change our living arrangements for the world, Sherlock. You irritate me, yes... but I'm never bored. And I like Baker Street," John explained. It was true; of course, there was more to it than that, but he wasn't drunk enough yet to tell the complete truth. That was the problem. The more he drank, the more he could tolerate Sherlock's deductions. On the other hand, the more he drank, the more honest he became.

Interesting. It seemed what kept John linked to Sherlock was the same as what kept Sherlock linked to John as well. They both brought something new to each other's life. For John, it was excitement. For Sherlock, it was...something else, something he couldn't place yet. He continued with his investigation.  
"Good, good…" he finally replied. "Wouldn't want you getting bored, now would we?"

Confused, John rose from his chair, refilled his cup (only bourbon this time) and sat back down. "I... suppose not..."

Sherlock smiled, watching John self-medicate himself for the following question.  
"Next." he said, finger tips back together "When was your last girlfriend?"

John took a long drink. "Why does that matter? About a month or so ago. But why? And besides, why are you asking? You know when I have girlfriends, even if you mix all of them up."

Sherlock's smile remained etched on his face. Sometimes he didn't think he gave John enough credit- it could be rather clever at times.  
"It matters…" he said, watching John finish his drink in record time. "…because that would have been your 9th girlfriend in less than a year. Normal people don't go through intimate relationships that fast, John. That is, if they /were/ ever intimate to begin with.."

John refills his drink one more time. "I hardly see how that's any of your business. They just weren't right for me. And most of them assumed that I am involved with you. Remember Jeanette? She left because she said I'd do anything for you. Just because we're good mates." The two words almost killed John to say them. 'Good mates' was what they were... but that's not what John wanted them to be. He looked up from his drink slowly, his eyes grazing over Sherlock's chest in /that/ shirt, his neck, his jawline, his cheekbones, his eyes.

Sherlock watched with great amusement as John eyes lingered over his upper half before meeting his eyes. John was probably too drunk by now to be self-aware of his actions, so Sherlock did not react to the gaze-over, just stayed smiling across the table. It was probably safe to start pushing John a little farther now.  
"You will do anything for me though, won't you?" he asked plainly, curious to see if John could admit it to himself or not.

John slammed his drink before answering. "That's what friends do." That was the last lie he could tell for a while. His brain started to swim: he was drunk.

"Yes it is." Sherlock replied, keeping his sentences short and simple.  
"But I've never been good at keeping friends."

"That's because you're a sodding prat, Sherlock. People can't stand to be around you long enough," John pointed out. He didn't mean it in a rude or aggressive way, it was simply the truth.  
"You're a self-centered, arrogant, self-loving git."

"And yet you stay here, most of the time happily, I might add." Sherlock pointed out, thoroughly starting to enjoy himself.  
"Why? What makes you stay with me, John?"

"I've told you, Sherlock: It's exciting. I'm never bored. You fascinate me. I happen to enjoy the company of a," John swallowed, "good mate."

"Greg's a good mate, is he not?" Sherlock asked, pressing John further.  
"I dare say his life style must be as exciting as mine. Why don't you go move in with him? I dare say, he may keep a cleaner flat than I do, that's a fact."

John didn't know how to respond exactly. He was trying so hard to not reveal the way he felt. "I've come to like Baker Street. And apart from the clutter, this is a nice flat."  
"Are you... trying to get rid of me?" John looked and sounded crushed.

Sherlock repressed the urge to laugh, burying the emotion down to retain a professional air.  
"No, No. quite the opposite." he assured John, who now looked slightly horrified slumped into the kitchen chair.

John couldn't hide his relief. But he was still confused. "What's the opposite of getting rid of me?"

Sherlock smiled again, this time genuinely. "Come now John, you're clever enough to figure that one out."

"I'm too drunk to be clever, Sherlock" He gave a half smile. Partially because Sherlock's smile was so infectious, and partially because he was laughing at his own "joke".

"Then let me explain," Sherlock began, putting it into the best terms in his head before speaking.  
"Do you remember the first night we met; I told you I was married to my work? Well, as time has gone on, I have come to realize that you, John Watson, are now a part of that work. I needed an opportunity to know if you still felt a similar way, and from all your reactions tonight I'd say I'm not leaving much room for error in concluding you do." Sherlock smiled, seeing if his friend was following him or not

John blinked a few times, rather rapidly, trying to process what he just heard... which was difficult thanks to the amount of alcohol he had just consumed. He tried to act nonchalant, "What reactions? To what?" He knew he had been caught, but he tried to play it off.

"Oh please," Sherlock began, waving his hand lazily in front of him, gesturing to John across the table.  
"I can see your dilated pupils from here, so clearly you either have a concussion or certain 'feelings', and I'll bet my money it's the latter. Your defensive responses to simple questions leads me to believe you've got secret answers you're trying desperately to hide, plus the strongly suggestive shade of pink your cheeks turn whenever I ask them is a bit of a dead giveaway."  
"Oh." Sherlock finished, crossing his arms proudly across his chest, "And the fact you've been mentally undressing me for the past half an hour."

John could feel heat spreading to his face. He couldn't stop it, but he was mentally begging for it to not turn his cheeks and ears scarlet. "I haven't been mentally undressing you," his voice was quieter now, just above a whisper.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, mischief in his eyes. "No, perhaps that is a bit of a stretch, but you've certainly lingered on my chest long enough to be considered bad company" he mused

John swallowed hard, looking guilty. Fed up with either himself or Sherlock, he wasn't sure which, he rose from the table, took a deep breath, and looked the detective directly in the eyes. "Alright, Sherlock. Do you want the secret answers? The real truth?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair again, truly curious at John's reaction.  
"Please," he invited.

John took yet another deep breath. "Yes, Sherlock Holmes, I'm attracted to you. That's an understatement. I go out to drink instead of staying here because being around you with all these bottled up feelings crushes my heart, and I knew that if I got drunk enough, I'd end up saying something idiotic about the way I feel to you and that would have been horrible because you don't feel the same. I go out as a form of self-control because I /want/ you, Sherlock. I stay here because I can't imagine being without you or being anywhere else than right here at 221B Baker St. And I don't hold down a girlfriend because none of them have felt right because they're not you and I can't find a good stand-in. It's difficult to be intimate and sexual with a woman when you're thinking about your gorgeous flatmate in his sodding purple shirt. And I /would/ do anything for you, Sherlock, not because you're a mate but because..." he paused at the end, unsure if he was ready to say it. "Because I'm /in love with you/, Sherlock Holmes."  
John sighed, defeated and relieved. He sank down into his chair and stared at the table. He wasn't ready to make eye contact again.

Sherlock froze. That had not been what he was expecting. Not by a long shot. He had no idea that John felt so strongly, so passionately, about him. He had anticipated a bit of physical attraction, and certainly the development of some emotional attachment, but Sherlock clearly meant something to John: something special. And for a moment, Sherlock thought that perhaps, just perhaps, John could care for him as much as he cared for John. Sherlock was almost embarrassed to find himself at a loss for words, but sucked back in the shock of the confession and tried to arrange his thoughts again.  
"I meant what I said earlier," he began, not sure if that was the right spot or not. "I consider you part of my work. Part of /myself/. I never believed I could ...feel...for someone on such a level as I do for you. I am comfortable with you John. I'd like to think you make me a little more human. I'm not sure I can understand exactly what it is, but I do believe I can declare that I, Sherlock Holmes, love you, John Watson, as well."

John sat silently, still staring at the table, still barely able to breathe, and listened.  
"Are... you sure? I didn't even know you were capable of feeling something even remotely close to /love/..."

Sherlock pondered this for a moment,  
"No, I'm not sure. But sometimes, you have to eliminate the impossible to get to the truth," he said, rising from the table and moving cautiously towards his flatmate.

John finally regained enough courage to look at Sherlock again. "What's the impossible in this case? If I had to tell you everything I feel for you, you have to be honest, too. Unless you don't play fair."

Sherlock's mouth twitched upward to a smirk for a moment, still moving closer to John.  
"The impossible is this- I don't feel /nothing/. You've somehow managed to occupy an entire section of my mind palace, despite me constantly trying to clear you out. And yet, I do not hate it or you. I enjoying going to the rooms and finding your sweaters and tea mugs." Sherlock didn't know how else to explain himself.  
"You've invaded upon me, and yet it is impossible to send you away. What does that mean, then?" Sherlock asked the air.  
"Love," he concluded, "certainly has to be an option..."  
Sherlock seemed to lose himself in thought at this, and started pacing the floor again.

John couldn't breathe, and he was fairly certain his heart had given up on him and his emotions. He watched Sherlock pace the floor for a moment, before finally asking. "What's wrong, Sherlock? You're pacing..."

"Me? Oh nothing...I'm fine, I'm fine." he murmured, going on autopilot

John knew better. "No, Sherlock. You're pacing. This is our /life/, not a murder case." John was almost annoyed but he was too shocked at both Sherlock's confession of love, and his own. And he loved watching Sherlock move around so gracefully as he did.

Sherlock stopped, turning back to John, letting his gaze drop down in a similar fashion as John's had earlier. He admitted he didn't feel an extreme pull of physical attraction to John, but he could still admire the strong presence he held. With cautious steps, Sherlock made him way over to his friend, stopping only inches away from one another. He sighed deeply, knowing what was to come next. He'd have to give it a try...

John stood slowly, nervously, from his chair, head still swimming. "Sherlock, what...?"

Sherlock examined John's face, his strong jaw line and his subtly tanned skin. He felt something strange grow in his chest, something like...fear? But it was different- it was fluttering and almost exciting as well as sickening. Sherlock didn't know what emotion this was, but it grew as he slowly moved his head down to meet lips with the one person he could say he ever truly cared about.

It took a half of a moment, but John realized what was going on. He closed his eyes and his lips met with the only man (well, only person) he had ever fallen in love with. His brain stopped swimming for a while and he realized that he was standing is his flat's kitchen, kissing the soft, pouty, perfect lips of Sherlock bloody Holmes. This time, he was definitely certain his heart had quit on him.

Sherlock experienced another first in all his life as his lips mingled with John's -his thoughts had stopped. All of them. Not a single piece of information swam past his eyes or danced through his consciousness… well, not but one, singular word: John. It was both frightening and unbelievable, and Sherlock felt lost for a few precious moments as pure emotion flooded his senses. At last, the two broke apart, both feeling dizzy.

John's vision came back into focus after opening his eyes. He blinked and looked at Sherlock, utterly speechless.

Sherlock looked back at John, utterly dumbfounded.  
"Love." He confirmed, more to himself than to John. At least that was settled...

A ridiculously wide grin spread across John's face and plastered itself there, whether he wanted it to or not. "Love," he agreed.


End file.
